


Everything Will Be Okay

by mia_writes_stuff (karinukita)



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: And That Goes For Every Chapter, Connor Deserves Happiness, Connor Murphy & Zoe Murphy Bonding, Connor Murphy Is Very Soft, Cynthia Murphy Tries, Gay Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), How Do I Tag, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Larry Murphy is an Asshole, M/M, Other, Please Don't Hate Me, What Have I Done, but fails, but then it goes downhill, i actually don't know how to tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22287325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karinukita/pseuds/mia_writes_stuff
Summary: A new school. A new friend. Maybe a little more than friends. A secret. A witness. She must keep quiet.
Relationships: Miguel/Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	1. A Fresh Start

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! This is the first Dear Evan Hansen fic I ever wrote (and first-person too!). I struggle with an anxiety disorder and the show meant so much to me I had to write something, so here we are.
> 
> (Also big shout out to Alex Boniello, Andrew B Feldman, Jared Goldsmith, Kaitlyn Santa Juana, Phoebe Koyabe, Christiane Noll, Ivan Hernandez and Lisa Brescia, they were amazing)
> 
> I have a slight idea of where I want this story to go, although I'm keeping it very broad so far. I apologize in advance to what might happen between Connor and Zoe in the next few chapters, but at least there's quite a bit of ConGuel fluff!! 
> 
> No more babbling sorry have fun

Skinny. Skinnier than June. I can tell by the way my hoodie drapes far below my hip. I haven’t eaten much lately. The whole new school business really stressed me out, and I guess I just forgot about food.

My uniform arrived last week and I still haven’t tried it on. My mom nudged me about it yesterday, but I was busy with other things. Now that I’m in it I realized it’s one size too small. Or it’s the weight loss. I’d bet on the latter.

I give my hair a quick shake and exit my room. Zoe quietly strums her guitar at the breakfast table, murmuring a melody to our parents. She’s auditioning to join High School Jazz Band today. I’ve heard that song millions of times throughout the summer and could tell her to shut it but the cons overpower the pros. Sitting where I usually sit, I look around the table and try to find something edible. I’m not hungry, it’s not worth it. Instead, I pour some lemon juice into a glass and head back to my room.

“Where are you going?” It’s my dad. He likes the idea of bonding during breakfast. I don’t. So I keep walking. “Hey, Connor. Get back here.” Now he’s standing up, taking long steps towards me. One. Two. Three. Four. His hand reaches my arm. I spill some juice. But I don’t stop. Behind us, my mom cheerfully applauds Zozo. I would, too, if I wasn’t holding a cup filled with lemonade.

And then all goes quiet. I am freed. I go back into my room. Zoe starts a new song.

There are a few more things I need to pack up before leaving; my computer, my phone, and a few more personal items. I do it while brushing my teeth to speed things up. They say nothing goes bad on the first day. Everyone feels numb from vacation and takes some time to get used to the new routine. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I just hope I live through my sophomore year. My parents are still considering letting me drop out of high school next year and I can’t wait for it.

Taking one last glance at the living room mirror, I follow my dad out. My mom begs for a goodbye so I throw one at her. I miss. The words fall to the floor and stick to my shoe. I take them with me.

In the car, my dad and I have the same argument as ever. I sit in the back seat. He yells at me for making it look like I pay him to drive me around. “I am not your chafer,” he clarifies. “We’re not leaving before you sit in front.”

“So we won’t leave,” I shoot back. “I’d rather spend the day in here than go to that pitiful school you enrolled me in.”

“You told me you were sick of the old one. We did this for your own good.”

“I know, but—“ I stammer. It’s over for me. I’m assaulted by his cruel words—-words stringed together to expose his wealth and how it gave me millions of opportunities I should be grateful for—-as I walk over to the front seat. That’s when he sees my hoodie. Now I’m interrogated unmercifully. “Where’s your uniform?” Under the hoodie. “Did you not read the article I sent you?” I nod, although I did not. I read the title. It was something about the zero-tolerance to casual clothes at my new school.

I remove my hoodie and stuff it next to my feet, hoping it will calm my dad’s rage. Tears dance across my eyes, and suddenly everything is muffled. I’ve turned into a crybaby. I cry at everything, from frustrating math problems to movies and books. Unfortunately, being yelled at by my parents are somewhere in between those two categories, so here I am, my frizzy hair sticking to my forehead like spiderwebs. I try brushing it off my face but now it probably looks like I’ve been exercising for the past hour, and that is not the first impression I want to make. I am not a bony jock trying to get buff. I’ve given up on that years ago.

As the car comes to a stop, my dad somehow manages to wake me up with a light tap on my shoulder. I wipe my face with a sleeve and take a deep, shaky breath. I pull on the doorknob, the door clicking as it opens. No more tears. Not until this year is over.

“Just,” my dad adds. I look back. His eyes are fixed to the steering wheel. His hands let go, only to grab it again---firmer. Inhale. Exhale. “Try to smile. You won't have a second chance at sophomore year.”

“I'll try,” I reply, stepping out. He drives off, leaving me in the burning summer sun. I look down and start walking towards the school building. I do not regret leaving my hoodie behind. It may be something I feel safe in, but without it, I am able to merge into the crowd. There’s no such thing as Connor Murphy, the freak who threw a printer at Mrs. G in second grade because he didn’t get to be line leader. It’s a fresh start. I’m more than ready for it.

First period. Biology. Not very fond of it. Last year we had some DNA extraction stuff, spitting into a tube and all. Some kid tripped and spilled his saliva all over me. We both got in trouble for ‘messing around.’

I sit near a corner. At least no one can see my computer screen from back here (not that I’m watching things I shouldn’t, I just like to have a certain level of privacy when working). The teacher comes in and starts attendance, scolding some late students. Popular kids, I decide immediately. Who else would be late to class because they were socializing just outside the room?

Once everyone’s settled and class officially begins, we do this introduction thing. I’m not particularly comfortable with it, but I try my best. My turn to speak. All eyes on me. The best smile I can muster on my face. “Hello, I’m Connor,” I mutter. So far so good. “I like to,” something tells me to lie. To say something someone else already said. Maybe copy the boy before me. Draw, I want to say. Make a bold statement. But what comes out of my mouth is simple: “I like to play football.”

Bony jock.

Unlike anticipated, I can’t hear any scoffs. No one makes a sound. No one except the next student, who flawlessly makes his introduction. So this is what being just Connor really means. There’s something so relieving about it. I feel fit in. Belonging. Part of the team. My mom would be glad that for once I’m thinking positively about school. Maybe this experience will be far better than my experience at a public school. Here, people won’t look at me like I’m some sort of ghost then walk away as quickly as possible.

There was this one incident in eighth grade where the whole grade decided it would be fun to wait for in different parts of school so they could remind me that I’ve been wearing the same shirt for the past three weeks. (Before you jump into conclusions; let me break it down: I had gotten the same shirt twice for my birthday. While one washed, I wore the other one. And of course, I wore other shirts too. It’s just that they couldn’t really tell since it was always covered by a jacket or something. But hey, it was just before winter break, do they expect me to not wear my one snow jacket every other day?). 

“Connor, right?” I snap awake and search for the source of the voice. It’s right in front of me: brown hair decorated by small curls. Not literally the hair, but that’s what I see first. It’s what I always see first.

The boy stammers a bit. I look around. People are walking around the room, talking to old friends and making new ones. My eyes return to the boy. “We’re lab partners,” he mouths, making sure I hear every syllable. “Oh” is all I can breathe out before standing up and finding a vacant lab. He hands me two sheets of paper. 

\- A step-by-step procedure.  
\- Some questions and lines.

After quickly scribbling his name onto his worksheet, Miguel—-I quickly reasoned—-started preparing the lab. It had to do with plants, a review, although I didn’t pay much attention or intended to.

Instead, my mind drifted into the dangerous territory called jokes.

Once he was done setting everything up I murmured the lightest one I could think of. As expected, I was told to speak up. “How do you find out the sex of a chromosome? You pull down its genes.”

Miguel snickered. So did I. It was not particularly funny, but when it reminded us of hundreds of other ones and they started spilling out of our mouths like smoke coming out of a train we were sure our relationship would go far beyond biology lab partners.

. . .

The school bell rings. Time to leave. I had already packed up my things despite being told not to by my math teacher, but now it’s too late to unpack everything so I stand up and leave the room. The halls are a mess, certainly messier than in the morning. I skip the intended visit to my locker and squeeze through the crowd to try and get outside. In some corners some boys make love, in others, they make deals. Probably not the best place and time. I’m always tempted to join these small circles but never able to find the courage to take that first step, although I hope this year I’ll make some progress. 

I manage to leave the building. After wandering around for some time, my name is called—twice. It’s my mom. Her voice is easy to identify. It takes me a second to recognize that I’m not taking the school bus anymore and quit looking for the stop, pacing towards the car instead.

My mom tries to give me a hug. Those big, chunky ones aunts give their nephews after reconnecting in a yearly family reunion. Unfortunately for her, this is not the occasion, so I pull away.

“So now you’re too old for hugs?” She looks at me with a hint of disappointment, although I don’t search for long. There are other things I’d rather do, and they require me getting home as quickly as possible.

The car roars to a start just as I shut the door and I immediately turn on the air conditioner. My shirt is glued to my back. I don’t like it. I don’t like anything about summer. The whole long vacation already freaks me out: most of my online friends are only free in July. Whoever decided on that three-month vacation better be burning in hell. If not, I’ll personally take them there. You see, I get bored easily, and the number one way to get rid of that is by playing online. But how do I play online if all of my foreign friends are still at school and get a little less than two months off? And then there are ants and mosquitoes and the fireflies and all of these things I’d rather not mess with. Call me a coward but I scream at the sight of spiders and run to my parents. Usually, my mom does the dirty job and my dad cleans up her mess.

It’s always like that. Sooner or later she’ll ask about my day. I’ll shrug and say it was not bad. That’s perfect because it’s not good but also not bad. And then she’ll make me tell her the tiny details and we’ll get into the whole ‘I didn’t socialize’ conversation and she’ll tell me to ‘stop trying to be lonely’ and I’ll tell her I’m not and she’ll give me a pre-made speech about her friends and how they’re completely different from her but they still get along well and how I should try to find at least one thing in common.

But I won’t mention Miguel. There’s no need for that yet.

My mom leans back when we stop at a headlight and I prepare to be questioned. All I have to do is say what I rehearsed multiple times throughout the day and I’ll be fine as long as I’m able to make quick adjustments. She opens her mouth. I play the whole scene in my head just to be sure. But then she lets out some words I was not expecting.

Do you want to talk about your day?

Way to go, I guess she had a Parenting 101 session this summer. Lesson one: your children might not want to open up and that’s completely fine. Ask for their opinion on it first. Here are some example sentences.

Now how am I supposed to know how to reply to that? I did not have a Childhood 101 session this summer. No lesson 1. No example sentences.

I shrug and take out my phone, disabling airplane mode and getting flooded with notifications. Excitement builds up in my chest: people actually texted me while I was at school. Why get overwhelmed. All I had was new posts made by celebrities I followed way back in Middle School and some people from my old school.

As soon as we get home I race to my room and shut the door. Lights off. Blinds down. Phone out. I remove the phone case and pull out a folded up post-it note, carefully opening it to reveal a big sequence of numbers. I slowly type it into my phone, my heart pounding with anticipation. This is it. My one chance in making this year decently good.

I open the chat with my new contact (which was bluntly saved as “Miguel - School”) and start thinking about possible introductions.

Hello, this is Connor.

Too formal. Too blunt. Too no-no. I delete it and start again.

Hi, it’s Connor.

Wait. What if I got the number wrong and this is not him? I can never be too sure, so after a few undoing and redoing I settle on a pretty straight-forward plan.

Me: Hey, is this Miguel?

Miguel: Yeah, who’s this?

Me: Connor.

He reads it, but nothing is said, so I reveal a bit more.

Me: From biology.

Miguel: Right. Give me one second, I’m finishing something up.

Me: Oh.  
Me: Okay.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, my shoulders loosening up so much I’m scared they’ll drop to the floor. They don’t. My phone spills from my weak hand and I leave the room, my stomach begging for a snack.

I walk into the kitchen as my mom finishes packing her yoga bag. She got into the sport back in June. A friend recommended it. “It helps dealing with stress.” Zoe and I hoped it was a momentary hobby, but it’s September and she stills shows up for the daily meets at Ellison Park.

She picks up her keys from the kitchen table. I try to avoid it but my hair is ruffled by her hand and my forehead pecked by her lips. “Zoe will be home soon,” she announces as her rolled-up yoga mat disappears into the living room. “Try not to get each other killed.”

I shrug and open the fridge, looking for tasty leftovers. After some quick scanning, I decide on the iconic duo: toast and butter. Boring indeed. Unfortunately, it’s all I’m willing to waste my energy on. I plug in the toaster and slide a loaf of bread inside. While it toasts I get the remaining items: butter, a knife, and a plate. Oh, and a napkin.

The popping of my toast is accentuated by the doorbell. I get my priorities straight and finish preparing my meal, albeit doing so to the amazing music of furious doorbells. Heavy knocking. My name is called. I chuckle and dance my way to the door, slowly unlocking it. “Haha. very funny,” Zoe scoffs, drenched from head to toe in an unexpected summer rain.

“I thought you might need a shower,” I explain. She chucks her guitar into a corner. “Maybe wash your hair for the first time in your life.”

“I do wash my hair.”

I could pick on her for a bit longer but I leave it at that. Now it’s time to actually do something useful, so I make a quick trip to the guest bedroom and return with a towel, wrapping it tightly around her before returning to my snack.

“How’s your new school,” Zozo asks, taking a seat in front of me.

“It’s fine. Nothing much. How’s High School?”

“I like it, I guess. Pretty normal.”

“What do you think of Mr. Hecky?” I smirk. He’s the history teacher. A true devil. You’re either his chosen one or he hates you. I was sort of in-between. He was very happy with my in-class participation (though it was completely made up) but I could get on his nerves, too. Mostly because of the overdue work and lack of motivation when it came to homework.

Zoe sighs. That’s enough for me to understand that he might not be one of her favorite teachers. Satisfied with my food, I leave and go back to my room, hoping Miguel is done with whatever he was doing. One unread message, according to my phone. Adrenaline pumps through my veins as I shakily put in my password, the room too dark for Face ID. I open the app. And then all my expectations are crushed when I realize my one message was from Zoe, begging me to let her in. Second time today, I should’ve learned.

At around eight at night, my mom calls us down for dinner. “Your father has a business dinner, he won’t be home before eleven,” she reveals. I mutter an okay and start scooping up some rice and fish before sitting where I usually sit: back facing the window, close to the living room door. Zozo follows suit, except that her plate is not a full as I’d like it to be.

Once my mom is seated I make my complaint. I want to show her that I noticed how Zoe’s eating habits have not been very healthy lately. “That’s all you’re gonna eat?”

“Leave me alone,” she shoots back, stabbing her fish unapologetically. I try to grab my mom’s attention. Hopefully that will earn me some good-boy-who-cares-about-his-sister points. Once she looks at me, as if asking what’s wrong, I point at Zoe’s plate and ask if she’s okay with that.

My mom is not happy. “She has a mother and a father who are perfectly capable of taking care of her. Now mind your own plate because you haven’t been eating that much either.”

No, not the reaction I expected (or wanted). Okay, I might have had a tough summer, but I grew out of it. Plus, “I’m older.” The reason why I said that out loud, I’ll never know. I should have thought this through. A full year barely makes any difference. And that doesn’t justify why I am allowed to not be hungry sometimes but she isn’t.

“For God’s sake, Connor, I just ate! Where did you think I was? In my room like a total loser who isn’t able to make a single friend? I had Jazz Band callbacks this afternoon and there were plenty of snacks.” With that, she bangs on the table and storms off, ignoring my mom’s protests. The room goes silent. I look at her untouched plate. At the crooked chair. At my mom, who rubs her temples and struggles to remain calm. I don’t apologize. Why should I? Instead, I quickly finish what’s left and ask to be excused.

From the dinner table straight into the shower. Clothes on, there’s no time to strip down. Who even cares about this stupid uniform anyways? The water burns its way through the fabric and onto my back, merging both surfaces into one. I like things hot, even in the middle of summer. It’s relaxing. I can spend hours under a nice spray of warm water. All I need is the right train of thought and strong enough emotions.

Lately, Zoe and I haven’t been as close as I wish we were. Everything is happening so fast. One minute we’re laughing at stupid videos, the next we’re pushing each other down the stairs. There are some creepy episodes, filled with words I wish I could take back. But I keep wondering how we got to this point. How me trying to get her to eat better ended in her storming off. Hell, she was probably so proud of the callback. I bet she wanted to tell me about it. Now there are so many tiny details I’ll probably never get to hear. Did her legs turn to jelly while she walked onstage? Were the people behind the table as impressed as I (inwardly) am? This is now a topic we’ll never touch again, simply because it’s linked to a not so happy moment.

I shake my head. Stop fucking crying. Think about something good. Miguel. About how his curls bounce on top of his head when he speaks. How his face wrinkles around his nose when he laughs. How his shirt had a small coffee-colored stain near his chest, perhaps the legacy of a hurried breakfast. We were so different, yet had so much in common. I’m planting seeds in fertile soil this time. They’ll grow. We’ll grow with them. Hopefully Miguel thinks the same way.


	2. Where I Belong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiii  
> have this ehe  
> sorry this might be kinda harsh

Friday night. I’m in my room. First weekend of the school year, fun. I bet my mom planned some weird last-minute camping trip to celebrate the first days of school and I can’t find any excuses to get out of that.

I’ve been sketching all afternoon. In other times I would show them to my parents, but now they just feel too far away. It’s like there’s my dad, my mom, and Zoe. And then there’s me. There’s a period and three words separating me from the rest. It used to be a comma. Then a hyphen. Now it’s this ugly, black dot and these weird filler words. I keep pushing myself to try and connect the two sentences but it simply doesn’t work. We don’t work. I am a totally different thing; I don’t belong in this rich, white, American family life. In this huge house. In these expensive therapists and psychologists and whatnot. 

But then again, where do I belong?

That’s something Miguel brought up this week. He decided we needed an icebreaker so he showed me some prompts he downloaded from a website. That was the one we settled on.

“I belong in nature,” he declared. We were sitting on the floor in this far away corner during lunch. No one to bother us. No one to even see us. Just the two of us, sharing stupid dreams. “I want to explore, Con.” He gave me that nickname. I’ve never been called by that. My name is already a short version of another name. Conchobhar. That’s what they would call me if I lived in medieval Ireland. “There’s just so much out there that we don’t know!” These things out there include poisonous plants, icky bugs and huge animals we probably don’t want to mess with.

And then he asked me where I belong. I had no idea. We changed the subject, but I never forgot it. Where do I belong?

When I was younger I wanted to be a baseball player. My dad enrolled me in an after-school practice and I even joined the school team in Middle School. Seventh Grade was my peak. It all crashed after what would be called the Sloppy Bat Incident. Last practice before summer. Scalding hot sun. Understandably, no one in my team wanted to field. Two out. It all depended on me.

I grabbed the bat and stepped into position. People started cheering. Zoe was there, too. She had come to pick me up but arrived a little too early. I glanced at her and caught a glimpse of her huge, wondering eyes. _For Zoe_ , I decided, but when I turned back the ball fell behind me and rolled to a stop.

“Pay attention!” Coach was not happy. I wasn’t, either. It’s okay, everything is okay, that was one strike. I can do this. I positioned myself once again, although this time there were no cheers. Everyone was quiet. Staring. Staring deep into my soul. I felt sweat pool in my palms and gripped the bat tighter. Now the bat was wet and slippery. I could have taken some time to wipe my hands on my shorts, but if I missed this ball they would never live it down. So I focused and held onto the bat for dear life.

The pitcher tossed the ball. A perfect toss, it would be easy to hit it hard enough and far enough. I got this. I swung forward. Right on the spot.

But then the bat followed the ball. I couldn’t catch it. They part ways. The ball was five steps from me; the bat continued it journey. I tried to identify the target. “Zoe,” I whispered. Realisation swooped me from behind. “Zoe!”

It was too late. Her small hands tried shielding her but they were not enough. The bat fluttered into her knees with a terrifyingly loud noise before flying off in another direction. She dropped. Everyone’s mouth did, too.

I saw the crowd form a tight circle around her. Coach muttered something under his breath before barking at us: “Let her breathe!”

Will she breathe? 

He then ordered one of the strong, fast boys to take her to the nurse’s office before striding towards me. “Remove that jersey,” he boomed. I didn’t know what to say. Hell, I didn’t know what to think.

“I didn’t mean to--”

“Remove that jersey.”

“I swear, it wasn’t--” A tight knot formed in my throat. I lifted the thin fabric over my hand and slammed it onto the floor, making sure it got a good taste of the mud under my shoe. And then I stormed off---or better, ran off---just in time to hear the last words he would ever say to me: “You are a freak, Connor.”

It was the first time I someone called me that. Who knew I would get so used to being called such a thing?

That night, I sat outside Zoe’s room. I couldn’t dare go inside. For hours, I watched my thoughts make circles around my head. What does it mean to be a freak? Is there anything I can do to remove that label? There must be something I can do, please, _please_.

The front door creaked open and my ears perked up at the familiar footsteps. My dad was home. He made his way upstairs and into my sister’s room. Not even a hello. Well, who would want to say hello to a freak who hurt his own sister?

I hear Zoe’s faint voice echo from inside the room. It’s soon followed by my dad’s own voice projecting her thoughts into orders. I obey and go inside.

“I’m sorry, Zozo,” I whisper before closing the door. Her bedroom is certainly brighter than the hallway, although her tiny pikachu night light struggles to illuminate much of the room. Zoe’s all bundled up in bed, a medium-sized teddy bear tucked under her arm. My dad sits on her chair. He’s distracted by the collection of star stickers dotting her room. They look so interesting to him. Definitely worth more of his attention then his maimed daughter.

Zoe smiled. It’s fake. Why wouldn’t it be fake? She mumbled something, but her lips were too tired to move properly. It was a long day. She deserved some rest.

Once we were back in the shady hallway, my dad pulled me into a hug. “I was kicked out of the team,” I croaked. 

“We’ll find another one.”

“There isn't another one.” Unless I choose another sport. Even if I did try out, I’m sure Coach had already told everyone about the Sloppy Bat Incident. It was over for me.

It still is.

My dad encouraged me to try baseball this year. A new school, a new me. No Sloppy Bat Incident. No objectifying coach. No freaks.

I look down at my sketchbook. There’s a knock on my door just as I set my pencil down to erase a small mistake. "Come in." Or maybe not, because my mom is never welcome in my room. I let her stay anyway. She sits on my bed. That's a bad sign: it means I did something wrong and she's about to yell at me for it. My mind lists every possible reason for punishment; I woke up late on Wednesday, and then I called Zoe a bitch on Thursday, and also there was the twelve-hour-long stay in my room on Taco Tuesday. That’s probably it. I need to “spend more time with my family”

“Your dad and I will travel next month,” she announces. “We’ll spend the week in Europe. Can you take care of Zoe?”

I exhale every single comeback I came up with in the past two or three seconds and nod. This not only means she isn't here to scold me, but it also means she won't be here for a full week to get on my nerves.

“Isabella will come on Wednesday and Friday to make sure everything is nice and tidy, but I think you are too old for an actual babysitter.”

Yes, we are way too old for a fucking nanny. Is that hard to notice? Truth be told, even Isabella---who cleans the house on Mondays---is excess help. If she can keep her house organized by herself then why can’t we? I guess we’re just a pack of lazy dogs. I keep my thoughts in and nod again. My mom lets off a happy sigh and stands back up. “Great.” The door opens. I turn back to my sketchbook. A thud.

. . .

The next morning I wake up to the sound of hangers dangling in my closet. The lights are on. I groan and dive under my duvet, hoping it’ll protect my eyes from the monster shining outside. My secret base, where I’ll hide until it retreats. See you in the next battle.

I lay down on my stomach, searching for any kind of extra defense. Pillow over my head. Eyes squeezed shut. I curse under my breath. No more sleep tonight. Pillow in hand, elbows struggling to support my body. Target spotted with a squinting eye. “What the fuck,” I murmur, using every bit of strength to haphazardly throw my chosen weapon at the light switch. A high-pitched _hey_ is the response to the attack.

Well, time to fight back. “What are you doing in my room?”

“We’re going to nana’s house today,” Zoe explains, closing my suitcase. “Dad told me to get your stuff so you can sleep more.”

“How do you expect me to sleep with the lights on?”

“I don’t know.” There’s a shrug in her voice. I can hear it.

I kick my blankets away and sit up. I might have slept more than anyone else in this house. Not complaining. My fingers twirl across my bed, searching for my phone, but when it’s on I shut it off because that’s way too much brightness. Turn it down. Night light on. Check it again. Much better.

There are a few messages from Miguel---something I’m not used to yet. It’s not like he has much to say, it’s usually just a good morning or a good night or a not-so-funny-but-still-worth-checking meme. I didn’t know how amazing I am at socializing when it’s all online. Look at me, sending a _lmao_ when in real life I would have forced a chuckle and ended up worse than I started off. No, no, it’s funny, I’m just bad at laughing.

Time to take that big step I keep telling myself to make. God, I just hope it’s as easy as it sounds. Just a step. Lift my foot off the ground, move it forward, set it down. Natural.

_I’m going to my nana’s house today. Wish me luck._

He’s quick to reply.

_I hope she fattens you up a bit._

This time I laugh. Just a short giggle, but still enough to call Zoe’s attention. She wants answers. She’s not the first. I don’t give her one, unless “nothing” is a valid answer. It’s decent enough. Zoe disconnects her headphones, blasting a very familiar song. Probably the one thing we both enjoy: _Hamilton_. There were some days this summer where we would scream its lyrics from the top of our lungs, hoping our voices could reach the other bedroom. Her bedroom is near the stairs, just after my parents’. Mine is down the hall, squeezed between my parents’ and the guest bedroom. We never have guests over. It’s what is left of my mom’s failed attempt at having a third child. He left before he came.

Zoe starts humming along to the song. “That one’s pure cow doo-doo,” I provoke. I know it’s her favorite one, and it’s honestly not that bad.

I finally get off my bed and wobble my way to the bathroom, splashing some cold water on my face. Refreshing, but not relaxing. I check the time. 10:23am. Definitely better than 5:45am.

“Get dressed, we’re leaving at eleven.”

The music leaves. I’m left in silence. Except for the ruffle of my clothes. Once I’m ready, I grab my school bag and head downstairs. There’s no breakfast on the table. Out of the kitchen. Out of the house. Into the driveway. Open car door, squeeze in, plop my bag next to my legs. “Mom, can you scootch forward a bit?”

My mom fixes her seat in order to give me more space. And then she mumbles something I can’t understand. My dad chuckles. Zoe speaks up. “He needs to stop with the milk.”

“And you need to stop with the attitude.”

Thank whoever is up there. For the first time, my dad is on my side of an argument. 

“I’m just trying to help, do you honestly think mom likes having less space just so Connor can daddy-long-leg into the backseat? What’s next? Spider webs?”

My dad opens his mouth to speak but his voice sounds somewhat different. Nevermind, that was just my mom telling us to please keep our chill. I kick my bag farther under the seat and take my phone off my pocket. I send Zoe a quick text.

_At least I’m not a fucking door._

She looks at me incredulously before typing a what into her phone. I try to make a gesture. She doesn’t understand. _Mount Everest_ , I say, and when she replies with three question marks all I have to do is point at my legs. “Mount Everest,” I whisper.

_At least this door gets banged._

Now that was unexpected. Very unexpected. So unexpected that I end up voicing my message. “What the fuck, Zoe?!”

My parents are clearly not happy. They take our phones. “Zoe has a boyfriend,” I tattle, placing my phone near the gear stick. 

“Will you two please shut up? It's barely been five minutes,” my mom points out. “I swear I'll crash the car if I have to hear one more second of you two screaming.”

I raise my hands above my heads in defeat and lean against the window. Zoe waits a bit then asks to put on some music. It's always the same songs, but if I even think about complaining I'll be kicked out of the car for sure. Better stay quiet.

We all stay quiet. For the next hour, no one says a word. It's as if the tension wrapped around us is so tight that anything will be able to cut it. Once we’re free, it's a free-for-all. I might reach for Zoe’s hair. She might take my arms. My dad would just lounge and wait. Maybe he'll tell us to shut up every once in a while. My mom would be the one trying to stop us, although her chances of success are miserably low. And once we've finally come to a stop no one would have the courage to speak up again until we reach our destination and are joined by others who are completely oblivious to how shattered our family really is.

Sure, on the outside we look like we’re living the American dream: and we are. But if you zoom into any family picture you'll see more than just privilege. There are battles and scars. Heartbreak with no apology. But a never-ending smile. Because we are the ones modeling this lifestyle. The ones telling the world, _this is how you want to live_. Heck, I would rather live on the street if that's the only place where I'm allowed to show a bit of humanity. Just a frown? Give me one second to frown. It's enough. My cheeks are already numb from forcing my lips to quirk up.

I fidget with my zipper. Zip up, zip down, zip up, zip down. Faster. And then slower. Fully unzip it. Zip it to the top. Hoodie on. Tighter. Hoodie off. Zip up, zip down, zip up, zip down. Zoe tells me to stop. I stop. She’s trying to sleep. Can't argue with that.

After spending some time debating whether I should pull out my sketchbook or my phone I settle on taking a quick nap. Car trips make me nauseous.

. . .

It's already high noon when I wake up with a sharp pain on my neck and wrist. My dad is on the phone with someone. Probably a client. I pull my legs up and onto Zoe, who's still asleep, searching for some space to stretch. Back pressed against the window, arms up high. Zoe groans, then closes her eyes again. Behind me bags shift in the trunk, making space for any extra gifts we might receive. This is like a huge yearly birthday party, it's when our relatives give us presents for our birthdays despite it being months late. Mine was in May.

My mom pokes her head through the suitcases and glances at the two creatures she is somehow still willing to raise. I look back at her. Bad idea. “Help me with the bags,” she orders, and I reluctantly obey and leave the car.

With two duffle bags in hand (mine and Zoe’s), I follow my dad to the doorstep and elbow the doorbell. He's still on his phone, forcing my mom to carry both of their bags and a half-asleep daughter. That disgusts me. 

I don't need to count to ten before the door opens up and the outrageous voices spill out of the house. My uncle welcomes us in with a huge smile. I can't tell if it's fake. I've never zoomed into _his_ family. I think he expects us to come in with cheers and excitement, because when my dad puts his hand up and mouths “five minutes” and my mom and I wiggle our way into the house with all of our luggage (and, of course, Zoe) his smile immediately droops and falters. 

It's like every single Murphy in existence is gathered in the living room. Babies to teenagers to adults to elders, all chatting and screaming and singing at once. I wave at them, trying to get rid of any clingy cousins wondering who I am. Trust me, there are quite a few of those. I wouldn’t say I hate them, but I don’t like them. They’re perfect. So many friends, so much confidence. My dad is the oldest one among his brothers; the one meant to be the example. Sometimes I doubt his ability to play that role.

I sneak upstairs and into my room. Or at least I thought it would be my room. There are two more mattresses, one next to either side of the bed. I tumble onto one, in pure defeat. I can’t wait to go back home. 

My phone beeps. Twice. Two texts from my mom.

_Where are you?_   
_Come say hi to your nana_

I would ignore them, but that wouldn’t end well, so I stumble my way downstairs and accidentally summon a wave of hi’s and hello’s. I grin as wide as I can while greeting aunts and uncles, saying thank you to pretty much everything they say. It’s not like I can really hear them. And then I get to my grandmother. Don’t get me wrong, I think she’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met. And I love her very much. So much that, after the monotonous hello, I give her the tightest hug I’ve ever given anyone and am received with the same warmth and affection. She’s the only one in the family who seems to understand me; who spends hours listening to my irrational problems and then actually tells me how to deal with them. I have no idea of what I’d be without her.

That’s why at night, when everyone is already fast asleep, I tip-toe down the hall and knock on my grandmother’s door. She knows it’s me. She lets me in. Her room smells like childhood; like old puzzles and scrawny dolls. Zoe and I used to do this every night, together. We would watch a fuzzy sweater birth from my grandmother’s own dainty hands and play hangman or tic-tac-toe, sometimes accompanied by soft jazz. Lately, though, I’ve been coming alone. Zoe can talk to our parents. They care.

I sit down on the carpet, right next to her bed. No more knitting: her fingers can no longer stay up for too long. A silent TV, some dim yellow lights. I hear her exhale. And then a faint voice whispering, “Can you get me a cup of water,” followed by a soft “please.”

I nod and crawl towards her desk. Some time ago, it would be flooded with documents and graphs. Now there are a few portraits, a silver jar with nice, warm water and a glass cup. I fill it up and swish on my knees before finally standing up when I reach the edge of the bed. I hand my grandmother the glass, wait for her to take a sip, then finally try to start something.

“I’m at a new school. It’s all boys,” I announce. My grandmother pats the mattress next to her. I can’t help but smile as I slowly sink into the mattress and drag the quilt over both of our legs.

“Do you like it there?”

I hum a yes. “Everyone is really nice.”

“I bet you made a bunch of friends.”

Not a bunch, no. “Maybe one. We’ve been talking but I wouldn’t consider him my friend. At least not yet.”

My grandmother closes her eyes. I take the silence as an ‘okay’. She changes the subject. Asks me about girls. Then grades. Then career paths. But she never finishes what she starts. It’s as if she’s in a hurry. As if she wants to know everything and tell me everything. It’s nearly eleven-thirty by the time she decides to turn off the lamp propped on the wall. “Your dad might act as if he doesn’t care,” she breathes out, her voice dancing in the dark. “But deep inside, he loves you---and your sister---so much."

I can’t answer. I don’t know how to. I’m not about to start an argument with my grandmother, yet I can’t get myself to agree. I keep my mouth shut and bring the quilt up to my nose. Deep breath. I’ve never smelled anything like it. In fact, I’m sure this is my grandmother’s scent and hers only. No one else is allowed to smell it. It’s illegal. I grin against the thick fabric and take another breath. And then I feel an unsettling feeling crash into my chest, like waves of guilt washing away anything in their way. I feel full. I need to let it all out. My eyes start to sting and one by one they squeeze tears onto the linens. I feel a hiccup escape my throat and wait for my grandmother's arm to curl around me; for her to whisper that there’s no need to worry, everything will be okay, I’m here—you’re here, we’re alive and this is what matters.

  
But she wasn’t here. Not anymore.


	3. Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I know this is sorta late (I planned to update every fourth of a month) but my school started getting ready for the coronavirus and I didn't have a lot of time to write  
> Well no school for at least two weeks now yay :(  
> But it means I'll hopefully update sooner :)

Too mad to get up. Too scared to get out. I press my fingers against my forehead, searching desperately for some sort of relief, but all I’m rewarded with is a choked sob. It’s been hours. All the way home from my nana’s. All the way up to my room. And now here I sit, in the dark, trying to prevent my eyes from completely drying out.

Can one die from crying too much?

Everything happened so quickly. I remember having lunch in the dining room after creeping out of my nana’s room. I assumed she was just tired. The very next moment my uncle was rapidly dialing different numbers and so was my dad and they were crying, I knew they were, but no one would tell me why until it was all too late and someone spilled the beans and then I was being driven home in my aunt’s car. They feared what would happen if I stayed for the wake.

I’m completely alone now. I can’t hear very well. I guess I got used to the one thing I heard all day and my ears simply decided not to listen to it anymore. I’m angry. I’m angry at myself for not being there. At my aunt for taking me home. At my mom for sending me back. At my nana for leaving me behind. She should have taken me with her; I still had stories to tell and things to learn. I never had the chance to give her a scarf I once knitted. Or that art project dedicated to “the best nana I could ask for.”

It’s too fucking late now.

This must be a dream. I pinch myself. Again. Harder. I can feel my skin prickle with red dots as my nails dig into it like sand, but I can’t get myself to stop. I’ll wake up sooner or later. I just have to keep trying.

I rip my nails off my wrist and grab a pillow instead. Placing it on the floor, I slowly throw a punch. Then another. And then another. It’s not enough. I bury my face in it and let out a piercing cry, dragging it as long as I can and making sure my voice is nice and loud. I stop to breathe. A loud gasp escapes my throat before being flooded by a slightly shorter yell. I wasn’t able to hold my breath for long. This one came to an abrupt stop before I went back to the wails. I’m a fucking baby. What would my dad say if he saw me like this?  _ Man up, Connor _ . I don’t doubt it. And I hate how, no matter how hard I try, I never seem to  _ man up _ .

So I guess I should give up on trying. It’s not going to happen, anyway. In fact, not  _ manning up _ means I can go running to my parents whenever I’m sad or scared, which is perfect for this particular situation.

I reach for my phone and call my mom. She doesn't answer. I call my dad. He's on another call. Reluctantly, I dial Zoe’s number and raise my phone to my ear.

“Connor?”

I can't let the words out. I try to open my mouth, but all I hear are my swollen lips wiping against my gum. 

“Connor? Did something happen?”

My mom’s voice makes her way through, although I can't decipher what she’s saying. I finally collect my words and sort them out. “I want to go back.”

Zoe repeats my message, trying to get to my mom. Next thing I hear is the device clink against my mom’s earring. “I can't stay here,” I continue. “Please.”

I hear a deep breath. “Dr. Holm told you to stay away from these situations, honey. You heard him.”

Sure, he did, but I'm scared my nana’s soul might revolt against me for not being there, and that is much worse than attending a wake. Maybe she'll grasp my foot at night and drag me back to her house. I can't stand being here. I try to explain it to my mom, but all she says is that going there won't help. And then she hangs up.

I call Zoe again. She declines it. She's typing now. 

_ We don't have anyone to drive you here. We'll be back soon. Just be a little patient _ .

How am I supposed to be a ‘little patient?’ I stand up and start pacing around my room, biting my nails so hard they bleed. Not my favorite taste. I need time to stop. Or speed up. Either way, I don’t think I can take any more of this.

Maybe a distraction might help.

I dig out my headphones from my duffle bag and browse through my Spotify playlists. There’s one with all of my nana’s favorite songs, although I never really took some time to listen to it. I always left it for tomorrow. 

I close my eyes and hit shuffle. The first song is a puddle of smooth jazz with a slight ripple every now and then. It’s like a frosty morning, maybe it had just rained and the grass is still dotted with tiny water ornaments. And everything sits just below a hill. And on top of that hill is a small cottage made out of nothing but the wood cut from the oaks of recollections I grew with my nana. She’s asleep. The breakfast table is set. I set it myself, with no Isabela to work her already sore knees. A bird chirps. Another one joins in. A friendly tune, maybe a soft duet on chilly lakes and blankets of shiny, minty grass.

More notes erupt from the trees. I turn towards it, searching for whatever mythical creature sings in such a perfect tune. My view, however, is not what I wished it was. The trees are ravaged; reduced to mere charcoal. What is left of the dancing grass is now an ocean of ashes. I run uphill. Dead birds cling to my arms. Then my feet. I’m pushed down like a magnet, the burnt branches drilling into my chin.

And then I open my eyes. I’m completely lost. My headphones lie on the floor, though I’m packed into my bed. My jeans and boots are shoved into my closet, though I’m pretty sure I slept in them. For how long did I sleep? When? What time is it? What  _ day  _ is it? I try to listen for any answers, but not one sound makes its way into my room, so I hunch over my bed and use the tips of my fingers to slide my phone closer before turning it on with the lightest tap. 9:34 am. September 8th. That means I must have slept for at least thirteen hours.

I feel a need to go outside, something usually rare in my case. My bedroom seems to be closing up on me. Fresh air. Please.

So after a good stretch, I get up and open my door, leaning against the hallway wall for extra support. My legs feel like jello, but I manage to cross over to the staircase and sway to the bottom floor.

Unlike my dream, there’s no breakfast.

But there is a certain Larry Murphy I despise, casually typing onto his computer.

I don’t think he notices me, so I turn to sneak away. But my feet slap the marble and give away my presence. “Morning, dad,” I mutter before he scolds me for avoiding him, turning back and making my way to the kitchen table. 

“Morning.”

I look over my shoulders as I check the fridge. There's not one hint of sadness on his face. “Is everything fine?” It sounds cheesy, but I don't know how to phrase it better.

“Yes, of course.”

I blink. Twice. “But nana--”

“Listen, Connor.”

I frown and shut the fridge. I don't like being interrupted.

“Real men,” he declares, “can’t shed a tear in front of his family. You,” he points to the space between my eyes. “You are going to have your own wife and children someday. And you’ll learn to show them how strong you are. You’ll make them think  _ Ah, look, that’s a man we can rely on _ .”

I feel my throat tighten into a knot. The ones Zoe always yanks off her hair and throws away, except that this one is stuck in there. I swallow around it, wincing at the pain, then try to shove that lecture aside an focus on priorities. “Your own mother died,” I hiss, hoping it would trigger something.

“I am aware of that,” he counters. “But there’s nothing I can do now, so why cry over spilled milk?”

I slowly shake my head, disbelieving what I’m hearing. I used to call him dad, but after all that’s been going on, I’m starting to doubt the truthfulness of the word, at least when I hear myself say it. This is not the dad I wish I had. This is not the dad anyone has. This is my dad, and I wish he had been assigned to someone else. Why me?

A fist wraps around my heart and squeezes tightly. “Fuck you, dad.” The words slide off my tongue with such gracefulness; such  _ confidence _ . What a glow up. If I told fourteen-year-old Connor that he would be swearing at his dad in a clear pitch a year from then he would have laughed it off for sure. I puff my chest to emphasize my point, meanwhile searching for a way to get rid of the silence I accidentally created.

But then my dad throws me that look. I run upstairs, stopping only when his voice tugs at my feet. “You do talk to me like that,” he booms before adding an even louder, “you hear me?” I nod ferociously and bite my lower lip before continuing my rushed trip to my room. My dad’s voice follows me, spelling out words knitted with meters of disappointment yarn, a type he always seems to carry around. At least when I’m with him. But the bad thing about this scarf is that it’s long enough to wrap around me like a lasso, and once I’m caught he either pulls me closer or let’s go, leaving me scrambled in that net of disgust. This time, he does the latter. Although it’s not the scarf that worries me; it’s his words.

_ I don’t think you deserve to go to the funeral. _

My heart pauses. I want to yell at him. I want to punch that pointy nose. When I start to run back, however, something tells me that silent acts of revenge are tastier. And I crave it now more than ever. My lip changes into a smirk. Now I just need someone I can rely on; someone who will give my dad heads up. Like, “Hey, Connor hasn’t been talking to you. I personally think you should be nicer to him. How about letting him attend the funeral?”

Zozo.

I enter her room. No, I knock first, because we may be in a constant battle but I know my manners.

“Don’t.”   
  
I go in anyway, because with every good deed comes a bad deed. That’s the way of the Murphy children. “I need your help.”

“I told you not to come in.”

Zoe has been crying, too. I can see it in her eyes. They drooped down and were pushed forward. If put out of context, I would assume she was high. But I know that’s not it. She’s hugging Mister Puffers, a big stuffed dog I gave her for her tenth birthday. It’s become her go-to cuddler when her eyes get puffy from crying too much.

“Get out,” she mutters once again, gripping the poor dog harder.

I refuse to and sit down next to her. “I need your help. Please.”

I can’t see her face anymore. It’s completely buried into Mr. Puffers. But I can work with that. Just to be sure she’s awake, I poke her shoulder and flinch at the very clear  _ leave _ . I’m not leaving, I’m just not going to touch her anymore, it’s safer that way. “If dad ever asks you why I’m ignoring him, could you please-”

“Connor,  _ please _ !” She insists, digging her nails into her scalp. “Fuck off!”

And that's all I need. I grab her hair and pull her close, then use her dog---that cursed dog---to shatter a nearby glass cabinet. Zoe screams. I hear footsteps. She's wailing like a newborn, but she's fourteen. She just happens to be the lucky one. The one who has everything she wants. The one who's cries never go unnoticed.

The door springs open, allowing my mom to dash into the room and tear us apart. I storm out. Step on some glass. And then I'm locked in my room, although the door handle is slightly loose now.

“You fuck off,” I whisper. “You fuck off.” My feet sting. Karma really is a Zoe. And I fucking hate her. Both, but Zoe gets a special share of that hate. I hate the way she smiles whenever my parents get on my nerves, and how she suddenly morphs into an angel sent by Jesus himself and starts speaking in that cheap, fake voice. I hate how she won't put her guitar down and give me a minute of peace. I can hear it through my door, over the swish of an old broom and the clatter of shards in a bag. I'm still going to wreck that thing someday.

There's a knock on my door. “Get dressed. We leave in ten minutes.” 

Considering my mom’s usual intentions whenever she gives me these orders, we're going to another one of those psychologists. The ones I hate. They always ask the same question.

“Why are you telling me so much if you don't trust people?”

Because I want to know what the fuck is wrong with me. Because I won't see you again. Because you're going to fix me. Now give me the drugs

It always goes like that. And then I spend four months on weak antidepressants until my parents finally wake up and realise that it's not enough. And then my mom takes me to another psychologist. And he diagnoses me (or better,  _ mis _ diagnoses me) with some unknown mental illness and sends me off with the wrong pills.

I don't need these pills. I need a cure. I can't keep living like this.


End file.
